


The Risks and Irrationality of Casting the Dice

by Fluffifullness



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alley Sex, Anal Sex, Foe Yay, Introspection, M/M, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 12:11:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluffifullness/pseuds/Fluffifullness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>...and then forces Izaya’s defiantly-raised hand away from his cut-and-bleeding lips. He licks a few scarlet beads away before crushing their mouths together with all the rushed force of a bus hitting a brick wall.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Izaya’s starting to wonder whether he might actually be a compulsive gambler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Risks and Irrationality of Casting the Dice

Izaya’s starting to wonder whether he might actually be a compulsive gambler – or just plain self-destructive. He certainly seems to enjoy putting his ass on the line – literally, in a way – after all, and he’s no longer certain of what, exactly, he stands to gain from it.

Well – physical pleasure, maybe, but that’s always done quickly and then followed much too soon by aching, throbbing, stinging discomfort.

There’s also the opportunity for some very interesting observation, but he’s finally beginning to realize – oh, hell, he’s probably known all along – that his chances of ever truly understanding this man fall somewhere between slim and none. Observation should yield understanding; if it doesn’t, these social interactions – if any of this can truly be described in such docile terms – are experienced at half of their potential amusement value.

It’s odd, though, because Izaya sometimes – often – catches himself thinking that, were this to become any more amusing than it already is – any more stimulating, any more exciting – he’d probably be dead within a week.

So, it’s satisfying. That doesn’t mean much, although he _has_ considered the possibility of love. Too bad, then, that love is straight-up uninteresting and therefore not an acceptable explanation. Izaya rejected it some time ago, and Shizuo’s never brought it up. It’s probably too complicated for that idiot, anyway, and Izaya doesn’t feel like being the one to teach him about it.

(Though there may be other reasons. Caution. Bridges that shouldn’t be crossed.)

Which must mean, then, that Izaya’s simply a first-rate masochist. Must be, if he can stand to be touched like this – rough. Unsentimental. Painful, even. He probably doesn’t really like it – not rationally, anyway – but his cock throbs and wants and Shizuo’s fists in his sweat-soaked hair hurt in a way that the informant couldn’t possibly describe as _all bad._

His cock too heavy, thrusts too forceful, come sticky and quite a lot to take in all at once. Izaya chokes a bit but somehow manages to swallow everything while his tongue keeps working at Shizuo’s twitching shaft – can’t pull back, anyway, as long as the blonde’s calloused fingers are still holding him in place with all the rigidity of metal heated by the summer sun.

“Enjoying yourself?” Shizuo taunts – a weak attempt, for Izaya is an expert at mocking and he _knows_ that he could do better. Shizuo’s tasteless, unclever comments never particularly bother the informant, but he won’t deny that it _is_ cute. How hard the blonde tries, how he apparently doesn’t realize that his attempts to make a great impression on Izaya are really unnecessary. The informant’s okay with bottoming, after all, so he doesn’t particularly need Shizuo to defend his own position. It’s what works best for them – Izaya, the masochist, and Shizuo – not a sadist, really, but just a little too enthusiastic with his strength to be controlled by anyone else.

Izaya’s personal theory, though, is that the blonde actually does enjoy the power he can exercise over the informant. Not that he’s ever really been sure, of course. It’s just a thought.

Shizuo lets Izaya collapse back onto gravel, then – helps him down with a little push, actually, and then forces Izaya’s defiantly-raised hand away from his cut-and-bleeding lips. He licks a few scarlet beads away before crushing their mouths together with all the rushed force of a bus hitting a brick wall.

Izaya’s breath fails him, and his lower regions grow several degrees warmer in the intermittent moment of hands exploring his arms, chest, neck – everything, a heavy press of groping fingers and palms that somehow still have the delicacy to mold themselves to his shape. Nothing left untouched or unbruised, his lips bleeding more as the sharp corners of teeth tug at already-swollen skin.

“My, my, Shizu-chan – nngh – I wonder which of us,” Izaya pants when Shizuo releases his mouth to busy himself with the soft pink of his nipples, “is having the most fun right now.”

The blonde snorts, and Izaya feels that sudden rush of breath gust warm and moist against his sweat-drenched skin.

He shivers.

“You, obviously,” Shizuo derides, but Izaya’s not so sure. He can see the telltale darkness in the blonde’s eyes, the way he inclines his head to hide the darkening tint of his cheeks – not to mention the bulge in his pants. There’s no hiding that from anyone.

“Think so?” Izaya teases, and Shizuo immediately silences him with another kiss – this one rougher than before, more in need of release and paradoxically desperate to prolong the pleasure. It’s slow but heavy – tongue on tongue, slick saliva-on-blood-on-more-saliva. Wet as fuck –

– and that’s not all that’s wet, if the appreciable stain spreading across the front of Shizuo’s pants serves as any sort indication.

The blonde notices it, too, and he curses loudly.

“Better take those off before you wind up with nothing to wear home,” Izaya suggests helpfully – a bit of advice that earns him a rough relocation onto his hands and knees. Dirt crunching under his and Shizuo’s combined weight as the blonde slicks himself up – always prepared with a bit of lube, it seems, but to hell with condoms – and stretches Izaya all at once with his full girth. No preparation, of course, because that’s usually what the informant gets for running his mouth.

It hurts. Oh, god, it hurts, but it’d hurt a lot worse if it weren’t for the lubricant. Still, it’s bad enough that Izaya can’t quite bite back a pleasured whimper – a pitch far higher than anything he’d usually be caught dead producing, but it’s okay at times like these. He collapses forward onto his elbows – muscles turning to cotton as his body struggles to accustom itself to being filled so much so suddenly – and Shizuo takes advantage of the better access – doesn’t waste a second on hesitation or apologies.

Izaya moans softly as the blonde pulls partway out – the fiery pain turning more to pleasure and then to an explosion of bright lights that briefly obscure his vision as Shizuo slams back into his prostate – and the moan turns into an open-mouthed exclamation. “Jeez, Shizu-chan,” he gasps. “You’re so rough with me~!”

“Shut up,” Shizuo hisses, and the next thrust is a copious wall of pain as Shizuo’s hands grip the informant’s hips – bruising, too tight to even slip on the sweat that’s turning to mud under a thickening layer of dust and fine gravel.

Izaya is only vaguely aware of his knees and palms being cut by gravel and – probably, he thinks – a few broken beer bottles or something, but that only stimulates him more. The blood-scent stinging his nose, dripping down from his lips and his body from the waist down one big mess of pain and straining for more, more, _more_ of Shizuo slamming into him.

Times like these, Izaya wishes with total, passion-drugged sincerity that Shizuo would carve something truly indelible into his flesh – something agonizing, something even more incredible than all of this. A reminder – and he’d use it against the blonde, yes, like blackmail but without the reluctance.

“Shizu-chan,” he moans. “Harder, harder…”

That’s as far as he ever goes – Shizuo’s right hand slipping down to fondle Izaya’s pulsing member, and that’s just about the most kindness the blonde ever has to offer in response – for to go any further would be to break something – a rule, perhaps. Something unspoken and mutually understood.

Also, Izaya’s not suicidal. Anything permanent is too great a price to pay for this characteristically fleeting relationship.

Shizuo obliges him, then, and his own moans mix with Izaya’s as the one’s nails scratch jagged patterns in the dirt and the other’s in pale skin – a dizzying rhythm that Shizuo completely controls. He’s clumsy – no gradual increase in speed – just sudden, crazy fluctuations that leave Izaya panting as though his lungs were full of blood and sand. It’s never really been possible to keep up with this crazy bastard, but that’s the real fun of it – and Izaya thrusts back anyway, does his damnedest to find some sort of logical pattern to match himself to.

Then gives up and just _moves_ , because moving is hurt and closeness and sensation. It’s good all by itself, a token attempt at obtaining that incredible peak of feeling…

“Izaya,” he hears, and it’s like a growl mixed with a moan – resentment and passion, an openly sexual sound that twines itself all about Izaya – tugs at something deep inside of him, and he gurgles a moan as his cock jumps in Shizuo’s still-pumping hand.

Jets hot streams of white onto the unmade bed of the alley, through Shizuo’s fingers and down the back of his hand while the blonde shudders and comes almost simultaneously – Izaya’s walls contracting around him, pumping at his erection with the reflexive motions of orgasm. They’re both talking, probably, but they’re not really saying anything at all – not hearing anything but blood rushing, hearts pumping, slap of skin on skin and gravel and glass.

Yes, Izaya thinks in the faces-flushed-melting-together-in-a-dirt-stained-embrace afterglow, the word ‘touch’ truly sounds a bit too gentle for their kind of contact – bruises that never have time to fade between meetings, aches and pains springing up in the unlikeliest of places and never seeming to fade. Shizu-chan is possessive – Izaya has marks enough to prove that beyond the shadow of a doubt – but he hates the informant with all the conviction of a lifelong enemy.

And hate is better, after all. Hate means pain, and pain feels incredibly good when it’s delivered by Shizuo. It means fun and sex with no strings or obligations attached. They can still chase each other through the streets, and Izaya can still include Shizuo in his plots and plans – the informant’s homemade meals, calorie-free and about as good as it gets. He doesn’t have to change anything about himself, and he’d hate it if Shizuo ever changed, either.

It’s not love. Love is dangerous. It gets people killed, closes doors and obscures all rationality. It’s risky, and that’s one gamble that Izaya won’t make.


End file.
